


Forever and a Day

by SafelyAway246



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 12:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyAway246/pseuds/SafelyAway246
Summary: "By you, I am forever undone."A series of moments in the aftermath of Queen of Nothing.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Comments: 107
Kudos: 518





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* I haven’t felt this wrecked by a trilogy in a while. Never went through a series so quickly, and felt it so deeply. And you know me, I had to write something. So here we are. This has no particular schedule or timeline. It is a series of moments in the aftermath of Queen of Nothing. I hope you enjoy.

She is so much like him. 

Jude thinks, a smile forming on her lips as she watches her daughter perched by the window. 

Well, more like  _ splayed _ . 

It would deeply perturb a lady of the court to think a dress so fine would stretch the way it does, but the princess forces it effortlessly. One pale, lengthy leg swinging off the ledge, the other propped up under her chin. However, her arms regard her status and royal etiquette; held together, elbows out on her lap. Though it does little to hide the goblet sheathed in the arm of her gown, the jewels that rim the top twinkling in the moonlight streaming through the arched glass. 

Jude chuckles, yes, very much like him indeed. 

Ordinarily, Jude would leave her daughter there to relapse into her mind. It seems it’s her most cherished place to be. The child was pensive when she was small, and she still is as a young lady. It was the frown, though, deep enough to draw lines etched on her face that worried her mother, just a tad. 

“Am I such a spectacle that the High Queen finds me so alluring as to stalk in the shadows,” Raissa does not bat an eye towards her mother, and the boredom in her voice carries. 

Jude shakes her head; her daughter has his tongue too.

“It’s early,” Jude prods coming out of the corner. The Fae are creatures of twilight, yes, but her daughter was especially keen to avoid the sunlight in any and all its capacities. 

“It is,” Raissa challenges, looking pointedly at her mother for a brief moment. There is more between the lines so Jude answers for the unspoken. 

“I don’t sleep well when he’s away,” she admits of Cardan, making Raissa smile, as small as it is, and catch her mother’s eyes. 

In the tendrils of her earliest memories, the ones that seem to dance the line between wish and reality, she recalls an elderly woman telling her mortal mother not to blink, or she would grow up. Jude never understood such a stupid statement and scowled as best she could through pinched cheeks and granny candies. 

She does now. 

Raissa is striking. All of the dark haunting regality, the daring beauty of him. A spitting image. The only trait that betrays her as coming from Jude is the amber of her eyes. The shade of a speckled doe or a wheatfield in the mortal world. Gold and mud and fairy wine. Yes, she has her mother’s eyes indeed.

And her temper - although Jude insists that that could have come from Cardan as well. 

The princess turns and her hair, darker than midnight, falls in waves like shifting shadows. 

“A penny for your thoughts,” Jude continues, harboring on top of the ledge after a few misses. She is not as agile as she once was. 

Her daughter tuts, eyes returned to the glass. “My thoughts are much pricier than that.”

“It’s a good thing we have the wealth to purchase then, hmm?” Jude playfully hedges. It loosens Raissa's resolve, if only for a moment to turn to her mother. 

“It’s foolish,” her daughter sighs at last. The facade gone from her shoulders as they sag, the fire from her golden orbs snuffed out. 

“Try me.” 

Silence stretches between them, as tangible as the sprites that dot the shadows of the palace. The signs of her daughter pondering is present: the slight lilt to her head, the cast of her golden eyes downtrodden to her knees, she would look to be weeping if Jude did not know her so well. 

Suddenly, Raissa snaps her head back up. Brows furrowed, clenching and unclenching polished hands. 

“How did you know father was the one?”

Jude blinks. Of all the questions to come from her stoic, clever daughter, that was not one she expected to answer. 

And yet, she is asking all the same, so Jude thinks. 

Cardan whom she hated. The cruelest prince she’d ever known. The boy who ripped the wings from a pixie at revels, and smote her whenever he got the chance. And then, Cardan who put his unwavering trust in her, who rescued her from the dark holds of the sea, and continuously, courageously showed up for her time and time again. 

Their story was an odd one, and hardly the proper criteria for deciphering a partner for life in normal circumstances. 

But if she truly scans those memories and happenstances, if she dives deep into those times, there is one thing that holds true through it all, ultimately leading her to him. 

“He was honest with me,” Jude says.

Raissa gives her mother a look mixed with incredulity and sheer annoyance. “You  _ know  _ he cannot lie.”

“You can be truthful and deceptive at the same time,” Jude quips. 

Raissa grumbles, gathering her skirts closer to herself. “I hate it when you speak like that,” she huffs. 

Jude smirks, opting for a clearer truth instead.

“The most striking memory I have of your father is him almost letting me drown in Nixie infested waters,” she says in an easy breath. 

Raissa gapes. 

Jude waves off her expression. “I said  _ almost _ .” 

Then,” Jude goes on. “After that, I recall him glamouring me into crawling around in the dirt half-naked.”

Raissa sputters, indignant. “Surely there is a  _ point _ to all this?”

“The  _ point  _ is that even during all of that, even when I wanted to string his guts to every branch in this land, he had feelings for me then. He chose not to show it...until he did. That was honesty.”

Jude remembers his first admission, in that chamber in the court of shadows. The dagger held close to his neck as he disclosed with absolute hatred his feelings for her. The beginning of the end. How he could have chosen to only settle for one truth, and how instead, he delved into it all. The shedding of the entirety of his skin, the implore of his heart stretched wide open. Pure, unadultured, honesty. 

Understanding dawns on Raissa. 

“Are you in love?” Jude dares, after a moment. Not really sure she wants the answer. 

Raissa jumps from the window sill into pacing. “I don’t know,” the hysteria in her tone posing it as a question. “I don’t want to be.”

Jude bites back a laugh. Maybe she  _ is  _ her mother’s daughter after all. 

Raissa slumps then, against the stone. “He just,” she throws up her hands. “Crept up on me. And then…”

“You saw him,” Jude smiles. 

Raissa bows her head in utter defeat. “I saw him.” 

Jude crouches near her and gathers her daughter into her arms. She doesn’t let her mother do this much anymore. But sometimes, like right at this moment, she allows it. 

Jude rakes a gentle hand through violet streaked tresses, inhaling the scent of her child, wishing she was better with words. Wishing she could transfer her own thoughts to her daughter. Wishing her tongue was silver so she could make her understand. 

“You only see him,” she whispers, “because he has revealed himself to you.” 

It is redundant and simple, and yet it is clear as crystal. 

Raissa burrows her face into her mother’s arm. “I didn’t ask for this.” 

“No one ever does,” Jude hums. “And guess what?” She gently brings a finger underneath her daughter’s chin to meet her eyes. “We are all the better for it.” 

Moments pass and Raissa returns to her regaility, straightens herself and purses her lips, but her hand is still in her mothers’. 

“Shall I tuck you in?” Jude teases, swinging their arms. 

Raissa smiles. Truly smiles. “No,” she murmurs and steps away to turn, hands fallen. 

For a moment Jude drinks her first-born in as her back faces her. Sometimes, when she looks at her children, she is overcome. They are the fruit of her journey. She and Cardan bore the proof of their tale. And out of all the magic in this land, that was the most beautiful. The most powerful. 

Jude sighs wistfully and turns around but her hand is suddenly grasped by a slender one and she is spun back, collapsing into pale arms. 

Startled, Jude envelopes her daughter with her own. 

“I love you,” Raissa gently says into her neck. “And I am all the better for it.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jude and Cardan argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am blown away by the response to the first one shot. So here's another :)

They are at war and their mouths are the weapons. 

She strikes a heavy blow with her tongue, all rage and contempt and fury unleashed like a flood. He comes forth then, and shields it with his own. Lips spewing venom, the intent to kill. 

Their screams echo through the great and high halls, bouncing and zipping and spilling into the ears of all in their wake. Servants wince, sprites scatter, and knights remain stone faced, although their armour doesn’t shield them from the clangorous voices above. 

The scene in the study is one of wrath.

“I cannot believe you!” Jude roars, hands bracing herself on a nearby chair, knuckles turning white, splinters daring to prick her palm. 

Cardan’s rage, unlike hers, has always been caged. Always controlled. Perhaps it stems from his courtly upbringing. Glimpses revealed through flares. So it is best to believe that the swirls in his black orbs are dancing with fury. He holds his arms, crossed, slender fingers tapping a sporadic pattern on his elbows, and brows so furrowed, they cast a shadow upon his lids. 

Thorns materialize from the shelves, cracking through the ground and extending from the branches that line the window arches. 

Yes, though his fury is confined, the land betrays him every time. 

“I cannot even begin to understand,” Cardan starts, slow and steady and sure. “What has gotten you so riled.” 

Jude snorts, the humor absent in it. “You absolutely understand.” 

“You are mistaken,” he replies, his temperament cracking at the words. 

“And there it is!” Jude snaps her fingers. “That I am  _ mistaken _ .”

Cardan throws up his hands, the exasperation in his voice surfacing. “Jude, you are speaking in riddles.”

She knows she is, but she refuses to make it easier for him. Not today. Not after the council meeting they had just returned from. Not after the humiliation she’d endured. 

There is a prickle behind her eyelids and she turns away from him to hide the wobble in her lower lip but  _ damn  _ him for catching any slight sign of her being not okay, and  _ damn _ him for rushing to her side anyways despite his anger and  _ damn _ him for the way he grazes her shoulders and  _ damn _ the way she shudders. 

But obviously since Jude is, well,  _ Jude,  _ her resolve isn’t shaken even if she is, and she reminds herself why she’s so furious in the first place as her fuel to push away from her husband. 

So Cardan does what any wise and revered king would do: 

In one swoop, he slings her over his shoulder. 

And Jude is positively indignant. 

She’s thrashing like a fish out of water—or a queen that’s been smote—but Cardan only holds her tighter and nods good-naturedly at the inhabitants of the palace who try and hide their shocked and amused grins. Jude’s arms are crossed, wisps of hair come undone from her fit lay wayward in the breeze of the walk up the grand stairs, and they stay crossed as Cardan kicks open their doors and plops her down in their chambers. 

They only uncross when he takes a skeletal key and...locks the doors behind them. 

Cardan then regards her, eyes an irritable calm, and drops the key into his trousers. “We are not leaving this room until you tell me what is going on,” he explains airily. 

For a moment, Jude eyes his pants. She could wrangle the key from him, she thinks. It wouldn’t be too difficult to distract him. But he’s focused on this mission. She would never be able to reach it. 

“I’ll scream,” she threatens, chin jutted out in a fake defiance. “The guards will answer.” 

Cardan smirks. “It wouldn’t be the first time the guards would hear you scream, hmm?” 

Damn it,  _ damn it. _

“Cardan,” she bites, her head lolling back in exhaustion. “Let me out, this instant.” 

“No.” 

She huffs at the powerlessness of the situation and finds the farthest corner of their chambers, slides down the wall to a crouch and pulls her knees up to her chest. 

His shadow envelopes her before his arms do. And even then, Jude doesn’t want his touch, but she leans in anyways. 

“What is it?” He whispers, his lips ghost her jaw before his thumbs brush over and brings her eyes to his. “What have I done?” 

The genuineness in his voice—which is always there—hurts her. She’s a fool for acting this way. A child. It’s a royal temper tantrum she’s throwing, and it’s embarrassing. But she cannot help it. Her fury is dormant now, though, and she feels it seeping from her. So finally, she gathers whatever is left of any of the common sense she usually has and opens her mouth. 

“You didn’t heed me,” her voice is urgent and she hopes that he doesn’t pick up on how it breaks off at the end. But of course, he does, and his eyes implore hers. 

“You undermined my authority,” she adds quietly. 

Confusion clouds Cardan’s face as he racks his brain to remember. “When?”

“At the meeting,” she says. “The strategy I proposed.” 

It wasn’t even that important, really. She didn’t even want to attend, but she had never missed a meeting before, and she wasn’t going to start then. So she went. And every contribution, every idea, was dismissed, left unregarded by the court. Typically this was normal happenstance on some subjects, and with a warning glance from Cardan, the court would remember themselves and relinquish whatever inferiority complex they had against their queen. It was an infuriating game. 

And then she proposed a new plan. A new strategy. A new way. And not only was she shot down by her council, she was refused by her husband as well. In front of them. 

“There are things I must execute that make the most sense in the situation at hand,” he replies with no malice, slowly. 

She isn’t ignorant to the ways of the kingdom, and she knows this. Surely this was not the first time that her suggestions would meet a dead end, same goes for that of the King. But for some reason, today, this refusal sent something akin to fire inside of her belly, and it writhed underneath her skin. 

It planted a seed of doubt. 

“I understand that,” she moves away from him, even though she doesn’t want to. “It’s just…”

She breaks off, shaking her head. A silver tongue, she has not. 

“Jude,” he says earnestly. “You know my intentions are never to pain you.”

Well _ , obviously.  _

“Jude,” he pleads again when she is still silent. 

His touch is her undoing. It always has been. It always will be. And she cannot lie, cannot hold her tongue anymore. It is the antidote of all her pretenses. 

“You don’t understand,” she says to the floor. 

“Then help me to,” Cardan gathers her hands, thumbing her knuckles, holding them at his chest. The steady thrum of his heart emboldens her to speak, ebbs the remnants of her anger away. She presses closer against him. 

“It makes me feel as if,” she stops and starts again. “As if I am still not one of you.”

It’s almost a whisper. Barely audible. A wisp of a confession. And yet, her voice rings out. 

For the entirety of her childhood in Faerie, she was reminded almost daily that she did not belong here. Whether it was kind in nature, Madoc and her adopted murderous family decorating her with charms and resistive beads around her neck and filling her pockets. Or cruel. Her body is littered with scars as proof of this. And even now, even in this position. The highest position. Where she stands alongside her king and rules, she still feels as if she is not regarded as them. As if she would never. 

“The crown doesn’t solidify my place if the people won’t look to me as part of the land,” is all she manages to say. Fingers wilted like dead posies interlaced with his. 

“The land chose you,” Cardan says deliberately, utterly. 

She shakes her head, gently removing her hands from his, and thinking back to that night. Where they exchanged their vows. “Our words bound me to the land,” she corrects. 

“But it still chooses you.”

She’s silent once more. 

He holds out a hand suddenly and rises. “Come. Come with me.” 

Wordlessly, she follows suit, and lets him lead her through the winding paths and narrow nooks and crannies of the palace. He holds her forearm steady as wooden floorboards morph into prickly grass, and then sooner, sand. 

Cardan drops his wife’s hand as she takes in the sea in all its terror and beauty and frollicking madness. Waves crash like fists upon the rocks and the soil and she half expects blood to seep out from them, but of course instead, a grey slush of seafoam breaks open, receding into the rhythm of the ocean once more. The pattern is vicious. 

“You know,” Jude brings her attention to Cardan now, crouching at the sea line and loosening the straps off of one boot, the other shoe strewn a little ways beside him already. “It is written in the Old Books, that the land only mirrors whom she loves.”

The Old Books, in all their tattered and ancient glory sit in one of their studies in the palace. It is the text of the courts, and in it holds the tales of all that once was and all that will be. Taryn and her, and all of the other children who grew up in and near the court know it like the back of their hands, but Jude does not recall this portion. This relationship. 

Cardan still holds his wife’s gaze when he presses a gentle hand to the shore.

And the tides freeze. 

She is beckoned then, not by him but by the soft ground beneath her. By the air around her. She is called. She feels it in her heart, in her soul, it rushes through her ears and down her throat, and she breathes out the call through her nose. 

Slowly and slightly, she dares a toe forward, and as her foot falls fully, water recedes where she goes.

“Look,” the smile is in his voice before she sees it. “Look at how the sea parts for you.”

She can barely hear him. 

A surge pushes her forward, gently, a caress into the footfalls of the sea, and where she steps, speckles of light envelope her prints. She wants to sob. It is prophetic that the land she was so akin to fear for the entirety of her life in Faerie, has chosen her to be one with it. 

“Yes, the crown does not ensure acceptance, but it does bide a promise.” 

From seemingly nowhere and everywhere, Cardan wraps his arms around her waist. She turns to face him, and he is absolutely alit. It is as if the sun and moon and stars present him to her in their palms. Day break embraces his black locks, turns his lips crimson, his beam illuminated. The waves rise higher now, and seems to sashay and twirl and spin, gently kissing their calves, tugging the bottom of her doubtlet and his pants. 

It is a dance of old. 

“You are every bit of this place, of these people, as I,” he continues, his forehead against hers, his breath tickling her nose. 

Jude thinks of how the soil stitched her together when she was impaled that night of her return to Faerie after exile. She thinks of the white flora and fauna that sprouted; a garden from her fresh blood. She thinks of the brush and how it holds her secrets still. How it hid her. How it’s revealed itself to her. 

”Take heart, my love. This land beats for you.”

The wind carries his voice and its as if the atoms of the air amplify his resound, the choir of all that lives accompanying this statement, cocooning this promise, them as the witness. Him. Her. They are the roots. They extend to all and every edge and cliff. They are the beginning, and they are the end. They are the center. Both of them. 

It’s a different type of peril. To fall in love. It’s to die a thousand deaths. Cut a thousand cuts and continue to reach for the blade. It’s the worst type of poison. She wasn’t or could not train herself to be immune to this. And yet, all she could ever want, or need or hope for is here with her. In the soil in between her unshod feet. And in him. 

So she holds all she wants to say, all she cannot ever possibly, and presses it onto his lips. Amongst the spray of the sea, alive and thundering against the sand, this is their song. 

And they truly are a wonder to behold. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all are so lovely. Enjoy another moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember this timeline is sporadic. I’ve always thought of Jude and Cardan having three children :)

For the fifth time that evening, Jude is covered with fairy fruit mash. 

Her infant son in his determination to feed himself has made his mother the collateral of his quest, but he does manage to get something in his mouth which is a feat. 

She offers the babe another spoonful when Cardan, cutting their toddler’s fowl into pieces a seat away from her, sends a pointed look her way. 

As parents, they've learned to converse this way. Behold the key: one long blink from Jude means it is Cardan’s turn to discipline, and a slight nod from Cardan signals it’s time to bring the children to a different activity. 

And their favorite: two short waggles from his thick brows means rushing the children through their bedtime routines and booking it into any—and truly,  _ any _ —open study or room they can find so they can get up to  _ their activity.  _

This time, however, both their eyes make a beeline for their young daughter. 

Raissa looks grey. And it is not the moonlight. 

She’s forgone her plate, food untouched, and head dipped down wilting like a flower. As the one who typically centers their dinner conversations—and all conversations—this silence is as uncharacteristic as it is unwelcome. 

“Raissa,” Jude says, but the child only wilts lower. 

“Whatever is the matter, love?” Cardan tries. 

“I don’t want to go to class anymore,” she loudly sighs after a moment. 

_ Odd. _

Jude gives an encouraging smile. “But you just began first year.”

As someone who was not in Faerie at the very start of her life, she did not know what to expect to find, but first year is just as colorful, if not more so, than any kindergarten in the mortal world. A child’s paradise. 

“Isn’t it fun? We love to see your paintings,” her mother continues after the child doesn’t speak.

“I like to paint,” Raissa affirms as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world but furrows her brows. 

Jude and Cardan exchange confused looks. They are lost. 

“Raissa,” Jude tries again, more urgently this time, and the tone is all it takes to break the dam.

“Mama are you going to die?” She cries at last. The child’s eyes are wide and swimming with tears. 

The baby yells, and Jude just hands him the bowl, numbly. 

The small child wipes her nose on her little arm. “Because I don’t want you to die,” she barely gets out.

In an instant both the King and the Queen crouch beside their daughter. 

Cardan clenches his jaw but his hand is soft on Raissa’s head. “Who said this to you?”

“A  _ boy _ ,” she spits out, as if saying the word is a curse. 

“He called you,” her face twists in recollection. “Queen of bones and dust.” 

Jude bites down behind a painted and careful smile. She’s been called worse all her life. She’s been treated worse. It’s no secret. But it’s another thing, entirely, for a five year old to bear the growing pains of a mortal mother. It’s another thing entirely for her to take the brunt of that which she does not yet understand. What they’ve not explained to her yet. 

And Jude has no idea what to do. 

Luckily, Cardan has always been quicker than her and braces both his hands on their daughter’s face. His palms take up her whole head. 

“Sweetheart,” he begins softly, thumbing under her red-rimmed eyes. “That was not a very good thing for him to say.” 

“It’s unkind,” she sniffles, matter-of-factly. 

Cardan hums in acquiescence. “It is.”

And despite this, little Raissa’s lower lip wobbles. Golden cat eyes shining. 

“Why, mama,” she wails. “Why did he say that?” 

And Jude’s heart  _ shatters. _

Cardan hoists his daughter up into his arms, and presses her head into her shoulder. “Come,” he whispers into her hair. “Let us take a stroll.” 

Raissa buries her face into her father but her eyes never leave Jude’s as they make their way down the hall. 

…..

“What did you say to her?” Jude inquires. 

It is late afternoon now. Their chambers are dim, curtains drawn shut, and the only glow emits from the few candles littered around the room. All the signs of rest are there, but sleep does not come for either of them. 

Cardan traces a pattern on her bare back with one gentle hand, the other holding her close, against his chest. His leg is draped over hers, and she absentmindedly palms his calves. Her mind is in pieces, still, over their daughter just hours ago weeping at the table. She chews on her lip. That image is one she is not soon to forget. 

Cardan bows his head, pressing his lips on her neck, on her shoulder. “That the Queen is tied to the land,” he says against her skin. “And whensoever the land lives, so does she.” 

She has never been more grateful for that silver tongue, yet. 

Jude exhales deeply and releases herself from his grasp, only to face him. They entangle themselves once more in this new position, her thigh between both of his, her breasts flush against his chest. The curve of his lips, the twinkle of his eyes illuminate the room more than the light from the flames. 

She tugs on the ring on his ear, and he catches her hand before it returns to the sheets, his lips meeting every single finger on her small hand. 

“I didn’t realize,” Jude whispers, both far away and present at the same time. “That we would have to tell her so early. She’s so young, still.” 

Cardan is silent for a moment. But only for a moment. And then he hovers over her, the shadow of him darkening his face, and hers, yet he is still so brilliant. He still takes her breath away. It seems as if his beauty only grows with time, with these new parts of himself he plays. Husband. Now, father. 

She raises her head, arching her back to meet him. One kiss. Two. 

“She is,” he hums in the corner of her mouth. The vibration of it—the truth and weight of it all, and the suppleness of his lips that never cease to itch her spine—sends goosebumps up her arms, down her legs. “But I suppose we must start.” 

He gently lays her back upon the fur comforters and the downy pillows, and rests again on her. 

“So then where do we start?” She wonders to the sky. 

“Like every great tale,” he says, simply. “At the beginning.” 

…..

The next night, when she returns from classes, Raissa runs into Jude’s expecting arms. The child’s mouth skims her mother’s ear and she giggles. “You are  _ powerful _ ,” she stumbles on the word. “You can never die.”

Jude breathes in her daughter, eyes pooling at the declaration. And though Cardan is looking elsewhere, busying himself with a babbling toddler in one hand, and a squirming babe in the other, the smile he has is full of pride. 

“Long may you reign.”


	4. Chapter 4

There’s something brewing in the den. 

Something light and fanciful. A tune that tarries with her. Beckoning her. So Jude does as it summons and rises from her bed, not without the fur fleece of course, which she draws around her like a cape and descends the stairs. 

It is early afternoon and all is quiet in the palace save for the usual scuffling of servants, chingling of armour on the knights who kneel as she passes them. She kind of likes when they do that. And kind of hates it. The sprites are her soundless guide, though she knows the way.

Now the tune is louder, and morphs into something deep and sad. It tugs at her until she is pulled into one of the rooms in the great hall.

Cardan sits. Seemingly caressing the piano before him, barely grazing the keys, arms extended to and fro and head bowed. His tail is languid, brushing the floor like a metronome, keeping time. 

And Jude is absolutely astonished. She’d known of course of his departed siblings and their gifts with music. She can still hear the echoes of the lark that Elowyn strummed at every royal revel. But she had no idea that Cardan had the gift as well. 

She’s forgotten herself amongst her marveling, and her sly feet are instead very audible, and her husband who always picks up on everything drops his hands, and turns to her sheepishly. 

He rubs a hand behind his head, the jewelry on his ear jingles. “How long have you been standing there?” 

“Just a moment,” she moves to sit beside him, letting the sheet fall to the floor. “You play beautifully.” 

He blushes crimson at the compliment and bows his head to escape her gaze. “I’m afraid I am out of practice.”

She gapes. If that was him out of practice, then she is keen to know what regular play sounds like. 

Jude turns her attention to the instrument. It seems to be out of place in this palace. Grandeur and sleek, it is not. Instead, a faded wooden sheen holds everything together. She gestures to the keys. “Well,” she waves her hand. “Go on.”

Cardan smiles, unsure of himself. This nervous habit has never waned. “No,” he shakes his head. “It’s late let’s return to bed.”

Jude gives her husband a look. “Please?” She begs. “I’m wide awake.”

Cardan’s eyes flit to the door, then back to her. But she knows even before she does that he can never refuse her. The king positions his hands on the piano, posture fixed. “One more song,” he says. 

Jude smiles. “One more.”

“Did you have any in mind?” Cardan asks her, mindlessly tapping the ends of the piano. 

She does in fact. 

Jude is not musically inclined, not orchestral wise anyhow. But it isn’t difficult noting which keys tune which sound. She braves a hand, scrunched up face in concentration, testing the not she is thinking of. And when she finds it, and the three others, Cardan quietly laughs. It’s the start of a melody that they, and every creature in the land, knows like the back of their hands. As if it is embedded in their very being. 

“Ah,” the high King sighs, aligning his hands over where Jude played. “A song of old my queen requests.” 

Music in Faerie is not something that can be reciprocated in the mortal world. Even the most captivating of tales spun by the strums of the finest wind instruments, or thunderous booms of percussion, is moot to the simple instruments of this world. Just like how Jude was called by its tunes, the sounds hold a bit of magic in them. 

“And a song of old,” Cardan continues, pressing down on the keys. “She shall have.” 

It’s an ancient lullaby that he plays. And it is her favorite of them all. She swoons, laying her head on his shoulder, the vibrations of the songs reverberate. And her mouth opens of its own accord. 

She starts soft and low, the hum pouring out of her like molten honey warming her throat, and then out out out, mixing with the music in the air. 

And cardan who has turned to face her, has forgotten himself and become lost. He still plays, but he doesn’t keep tempo, and regards her with one of those looks in his eyes she can never decipher.

As was said: Jude is not orchestral inclined, but her voice is a different story. She seldom sings for others, it is a talent she keeps for herself, but she figured in that moment, he had given up a part of his hidden self for her, she would do the same. 

He is still staring when she is finished. Then the minute after. 

A slow burn works its way up her cheeks. “It’s my favorite,” she lowers her head, but her husband raises her chin. 

“It would be my greatest hope,” he breathes, constellations in his eyes. “For you to sing to our children like that.” 

And just like that, she is a puddle. 

She isn’t close to pregnant, although whispers of an heir fill the palace halls. And Cardan isn’t swayed in the least bit by it, but they have discussed it. And it will happen. One day. Some day. 

“Only if you play,” she whispers back, never able to take a compliment from him. 

“Then we’re agreed,” Cardan beams, pulling his queen into him. 

Her fingers ghost his own, fingertips touching slender knuckles as they bounce along the keys. Her head resting on his chest. 

Then, their lips play a different tune together until day breaks. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just assume for the sake of this mystical land - and just because I want to in this fic - that Antibiotics cures everything. (Even if it really does not). xo

It is comical the way they stare at him. 

As if spots on the skin were anything to harrumph about in a magical and mystical land. 

As if an aquatic army hadn’t surfaced from the sea intending to stake hold over the land just a few short years ago. 

As if from the King’s own blood, flora and fauna sprouting out was a normal happenstance. 

_This_ is the oddity they are dumbfounded over. 

And my, are they dumbfounded. 

The doors are shut in their chambers, and they are all across the room in various states of distress. 

Few members from the living council braved coming inside, but two stand at the door. And even then, their eyes are askance and flitter from the exit behind them and the cradle in the center of the room where the infant prince lay fast asleep.

And then there is Cardan, who paces with a hunch to his back as if he were glamoured to do so. 

“It’s _just_ the chicken pox,” Vivi boredly states, eyes rolled so far up into her head, her sockets could have swallowed her orbs. 

Cardan stands to attention, impatient with Vivi or the situation, or both. His tail swings erratically, it is the only sign he shows of his fear.

“How did he get this?” Cardan pulls at his locks. His eyes darting to the sleeping babe, then to Jude, then back again.

It isn’t difficult to guess. Their regular trips to the mortal world have bore consequences before. Especially with two young children in tow.

There are things that come easy, however. At first, Jude was uneasy about what Raissa would say mortal-side. Cardan absolutely refused to glamour her into holding her tongue, to which Jude obviously agreed. But when a three year old babbles a mile a minute of tales of faerie and thrones and toads that speak and pink goblins, it is deemed as the remnants of bedtime stories. 

It’s only when she speaks of her horns do the mothers at the playground usher their own kin behind them. 

Jude voices this much, daring to stroke a finger on her son’s nose. 

When she did this before—prior to the pink speckles showing on his skin—Cardan just about lost his mind. It was only when her and Vivi reassured him that they were immune to the illness through a vaccine, did he deflate. But only a bit. 

“And,” Vivi dives in. “Unless you’re meaning to declare war on a snotty 7 year-old, I would suggest another means to combat this.” 

Cardan doesn’t even hear her anymore. 

“We must keep Raissa away. Quarantine the palace,” he says to no one. 

Vivi gives jude an incredulous look behind Cardan’s back, but Jude is a little afraid as well. Faerie child, human or both, immune systems don’t just build over night. She’d never recalled the faerie folk catching a mortal illness. It never crossed her mind for a moment. 

The baby squawks and Jude brings him from his cradle to her chest. When she looks up, she meets Cardan’s eyes that are even more pained than before. He calls the guards in. 

“Send word that the prince is ill,” he spits out as if the words are too hot to remain in his mouth. “And call _everyone_.”

And so they come. 

Hags of all shapes and creeds, unseelie crafters, Goblins and faeries line the halls of the palace. 

Randalin is called for many a time to reassure Cardan of their son’s path.

“Check the stars again,” he presses, the calm caged only by his teeth. 

It’s always the same, and the fate is not of consequence, yet Cardan still calls him to his side in moments when he is especially hopeless. 

And just like before, just like in those past days, when she was deemed as nothing of significance. Before, at the very start of her journey, she uses the concoction of fury and fear to fuel her. 

Jude hates this with a passion. Strangers poking her child. Inspecting him as if he were a specimen. And with each visit, she grows more irritable as Cardan grows anxious. In just four days, they are exhausted and furious. And of course, the land mirrors their anguish. Storms rage, the soil cracks, clouds roll and roar. 

Until. 

“Enough,” Jude brings a finger to her temple, eyes shut and sparkles swimming behind her lids. She has just dismissed a hag with a head of a cat after a glamour had resulted in the child turning a bright green for a moment. “We’re done with this.”

“Jude,” Cardan sighs, pointing at the doors. “We cannot stop. There could be a solution right outside.” Their yelling is only background to the babe’s cries. 

“Oh? And do you know that for sure?” She challenges, rising from the throne and descending the stairs towards the fussy child. “Are you confident of that?”

“And are you confident that there is not?” His voice rises with every word. 

The crying only worsens and among the outrage is heartbreak. Jude coos to him. 

“Our son is ill and this is not working,” she bellows in between her lulluabies. 

“Then what do you suppose will?” He shouts. 

Someone clears their voice across from them. 

“This,” Vivi smirks, a vial in her hand. “Here,” she tosses him. 

He inspects it warily. “What is it?”

Vivi crosses her arms, a stupid smile on her face. “ _Antibiotics_.”

…..

In the days that come, the illness wanes, the spots fade, as does the fear. But cardan is still weary. 

Jude finds him, hovering over the bassinet in their chambers. It’s always mystified her for a reason: her husband, tall as anything, hunched over their tiny baby. It’s like he’s cocooning him every time. Perhaps he is. 

Alistair is fast asleep, as he usually is, a tiny hand curled over his father’s index finger and Jude smiles, laying her head against his shoulder. He kisses her head without his eyes leaving the child. 

“He’s fine, you know. We’re all fine.” She reassures quietly. 

“For now,” he whispers somberly, wrapping his free arm around his queen.

She bites her lip. Those double-edged words have never struck her more. 

“There are days where I want to make another island,” he admits after a moment of silence. “And put them on it. Shielded.” 

“Nowhere is safe,” she frowns. 

“That I know,” he hums. “I just wish it were not true.”

The baby prince smacks his lips in his sleep, then curves them upwards into a smile. It wrenches both of their hearts from their very chests. 

“It hurts to love them,” he confesses in a breath. 

She’s silent at that. Because it does. It hurts. So she takes his hand. 

Because at least, for their children, it isn’t the other way around.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I love the children. :)

Egon is at the footfall of the grand stairwell and lies in wait for what will be the best prank he has ever done. The only reason it will be the best is because it is actually purposeful this time. The petty days of glamouring bullfrogs to dance at dinner and imitating his father’s voice to force the guards to scurry, are long over. 

He is 11 now and he must shoulder the responsibility of truly princely pranks. 

Anyways, mother and father forbade them to glamour each other—even just for fun—so he’s had to think of other ways. Mortal ways. To mess with his older siblings. But today, he has a different intention. 

Steps echoe the corridor, littered with a much too high laugh of his sister. Raissa is arm in arm with a suitor from one of the courts that Egon does not care too much to remember.

The youngest prince readies himself for impact, and does one last proud look over at his contraption. 

It’s simple really, dull without the gleam or magic, but it’ll have to do. Two thin wooden planks, held together with a measly screw, act as the arm of the operation. A long metal rod extends from the ceiling to the floor, a handle for Egon to pull when it’s time, all hidden away behind the drapes in the hall. And the most important part: a pot of warmed molasses suspends from the edge of the rubber, swaying slightly. 

Egon counts under his breath, a clammy hand on the make-shift lever, and just as the couple rounds the corner, the prince yanks. Hard. And the bucket turns upside down.

Drenching the substance all over Raissa. 

And Raissa alone.

_ Uh-oh. _

For a moment everything and everyone is still. 

The servants gape, the guards stiffen, and all is silent. 

Until. 

A screech punctured with rage like he has never heard comes from his elder sister’s mouth. And when he dares to meet her eyes, they are swirling ember with fury. 

_ Hell. _

He is on his feet and dashing through the hall before he can even blink, but his sister is quick as well and is hot on his heels, suitor forgotten in lieu of becoming a literal faerie dessert. 

“I will kill you,” she roars, skirts gathered in her hands, half-sliding on the mess she is trailing behind her, half-sprinting after her brother. 

For all of his wits, the youngest prince is not the fastest. He is, however, the most directionally challenged. Which truly does not help his case one bit. And he doesn’t falter in his pace as he surveys where he can go to evade a sudden—and most likely painful—death by his sister. 

He tries an old door he’s never even seen before but the handles won’t budge. Then another, and another. All without success. 

“Egon!” His sister bellows, closing in on him. He dares to look back at her and regrets that decision immediately because she looks absolutely crazed. 

The boy skirts through the maidens who hold folded sheets and pillows and he’s suddenly got a great—and awful—idea.

He snags a pillow from one of the startled maids, and brings the corner of it into his mouth, ripping the case clean open. Raissa a few ways away from him now stops dead in her tracks, a warning in her eyes.

“Egon,” she says deliberately, venom dripping at every syllable. “Don’t you da-“

And feathers go flying.

If he wasn’t sure she would kill him now, he might as well pick out what he’ll wear to his funeral. 

Egon darts past the scene and is sure he hears his sister wheezing at the fluff, and is confident that that has kept her steady from the chase, but he is wrong.

Very wrong.

Raissa stomps. Hard. And the floor beneath them shakes.

Immediately he knows what is happening and hugs a wall, inching his way out of her line of sight but it’s too late.

“You can’t do that!” He yells, the fear laced in his voice as through the cracks of the palace floor come...gigantic and snapping, venus fly traps.

_ Double, Hell’s. _

“Can’t I?” Raissa is a dark and terrifying wonder to behold. The only true thing missing from this scene is flames. She stands, tall as anything, as three writhing and gigantic stalks of spiky and speckled fauna hiss and roar. The hall is empty now. Guards are the only ones who remain and they aren’t quite sure how to handle the situation either—they were never instructed on how to handle the threats resulting from sibling brawls—so they stay in place, hands hovering the hilt of their weapons just in case. 

Egon has to think quickly. He could glamour something as well, but his measly magic is nothing in comparison to his sister’s. 

But as was said before, the boy has wits.

His fingers grab hold of the handle to the only room he is all too familiar with and he runs straight inside, smack into...his father’s legs. 

He realizes soon enough that the entire court of the Living Council stands around him as well. 

Egon is sheepish but not for long because Raissa, dripping still, runs in after him. The plants stemmed from her wrath lay limp as quickly as they had risen. Egon rushes to the end of the long oval table, and anytime his sister tries to move towards him, he dodges to the other side. 

“Children,” their father starts calmly, as the council looks on. “What is the meaning of this?”

The two are a garbled mess of words. Apologies fall from the boy’s lips as he dodges her, and curses fall from her own. But once Cardan looks at her daughter, and truly looks—which takes a few blinks—he erupts into laughter. 

“Look at me,” Raissa all but sobs. “I look like a pigeon.” 

Between his fits, Cardan dismisses the council who snicker at the sight of their princess on the way out. 

Egon is every bit of his mother, and his talent is getting under the skin. Standing right behind his father for protection, he dares. “Oh come now,” he barely holds in a laugh, despite his circumstances. “It’s a lovely look.”

Raissa screams again, and lunges forward. 

“Alright,” the high King steps in between his children, returned to himself once more, though the hint of a wicked smile still lingers. “Enough of this.” 

Cardan kneels in front of his youngest son and gives him a pointed look. “What happened?”

Raissa beside them sucks her teeth. “He humiliated me,” she snaps. “In front of my guest, no less!”

But their father’s gaze doesn’t wane from Egon’s eyes. “What happened?” Cardan repeats, a raised eyebrow. 

Despite being unable to lie, Egon wouldn’t even if he could. Not to his father, who has always been the voice of reason, the peace-maker, the listener. And one would think, from the amount of times Egon has gotten in trouble, guilt would one day evade him entirely. But it hadn’t in those instances, and it isn’t now. And maybe one day, he will be a smooth-talker like his father, who shapes worlds with his words, whose elegance shines through his prose, but for now...

“He wasn’t right for you!” Egon huffs at his sister.

Now it’s Raissa’s turn to arch her brow. “What?”

Egon comes closer to her, head bowed. “I heard him in the corridors before your stroll. He’s unkind. He would have been awful for you.”

And it was true. A few days ago, when the suitor’s entourage arrived in all of their High Fae glory, Egon had caught him in some very uncompromising situations. Between the eye that followed every lady in the palace for a bit too long, the utter discontent he found every servant to be at all times, and conversations he’d had in hushed tones that Egon wouldn’t dare to repeat, the suitor was in fact not a suitable match at all for his sister. 

“I just,” he shrugs, head bowed. “Was trying to break up the possibility of an engagement.”

The princess visibly deflates at her brother’s words and her crossed arms fall at her sides. She sighs, “could you not have just revealed your chivalrous intentions in some other way,” she pulls at her soiled hair. “Perhaps less sticky.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly, I am.” 

Egon extends his hand and Raissa mulls it over before taking it and pulling him into her embrace.

“Thank you,” she kisses his brown curls, then she slaps his head. 

“I guess I deserve that,” he admits in a toothy smile.

Cardan claps once behind them. “Well, then,” he beams. “I trust now all is well?”

Raissa takes her brother’s hand, and that’s enough answer for the both of them. 

“Good,” Cardan traipses to the door. “Because you are both absolutely grounded for the next week.” 

Just as fast as Raissa holds her brother’s hand, she drops it as if she’s been singed. 

“Father!” They both cry, but Cardan is already out of the room, laughing under his breath.

“Molasses,” they hear him whisper to himself, shaking his head. “Wait till Jude hears about this one.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this one written for a while now and just wanted to finally post. It's one that tugs at my heart. I hope it does the same for yours.

She’s reading in the garden when he finds her. 

She’s lounging in a wooden chaise, finger kept to hold her place between the pages, other hand on her forehead as a visor to shield the sun. 

The children are inside asleep, and she has snuck away just for a moment of peace, a feat so difficult to find these days. 

Until.

Her husband, the king, barrels out the side doors leading to her spot, almost knocking over a servant holding a tray of silver in the process. 

She turns a page, a little annoyed that he’s disturbed her moment. “You know,” she says when he approaches. “Your clumsiness is quite unbecoming.” 

He ignores her, and gently closes her book.

“Cardan,” Jude questions eyes wide. “What are you doing-“

“There’s something I want to say to you,” Cardan says in a rush, words tumbling out of his mouth like they simply cannot stay there any longer.

At first she thinks he’s joking. This demeanor is unnatural for him. And it’s odd. So she entertains him. 

“So say it,” she reclines back into her seat, arms crossed. 

“I love you,” he says plainly. But his eyes tell a different story. They tell of fire and longing. Frustration. 

“I love you too,” she blinks, startled because she does. As she’s told him hundreds of times before. 

“No,” he yanks at his hair, pacing before stopping to a halt in front of her. He drops to his knees. 

He curses at the blush on his cheeks. “Perhaps I am not the best at verbosity today.” He tents his hands before splaying them out on her knees. 

“Okay,” he breathes, thumbing her thighs. “Let me start at the beginning.” 

Jude sits up a bit straighter. “Of what?”

“Of us.” 

He has got all of her attention now. 

“Once upon a time,” he begins, his face wrought with concentration as if he were yanking the memories out of his head. “You hated me, and I despised you.” 

_ Well this sounds like a lovely tale.  _

Cardan rises, seemingly capturing his probity once again. “And then I didn’t, but I hated you because I didn’t anymore, so I still hated you.” 

Jude nods. 

“And then it turned to love,” he says, his eyes aflame. 

Jude can hardly breathe when he looks at her like that. “Yes,” she chokes. “After a series of events, however.”

Cardan twirls a hand in the air. “Yes, yes. You tried to kill me, there were many explosions, you were locked away in the sea and I turned into a serpent. Details, details.”

Traitorous family and friends. Ancient secrets. Curses. Promises. Death. Rebirth. But yes, indeed,  _ details. _

“And then,” he continues quietly, crouching again once more. “You were pregnant. Three times. And with every single birth, it was as if I had been drowning all my life and I finally broke the surface. And it all comes back to you,” he says in awe. “It’s always been you.” 

Jude cannot feel herself in her body. 

“You have become,” he looks off into the distance, as if the sky holds the word he searches for. In his eyes, the sunlight highlights the tears. “Every part of me. An imprint on my soul. My breath leaves me to seek you and only then does it return. I hold it when you are not near me.”

She is still. She has never seen him like this. He has never been like this.

Cardan swallows dryly. “Heed these words Jude.”

“I’m listening,” she says breathlessly, eyes fluttering. 

“You have awakened me. Untangled me. Revealed me. Immortality is moot if one is not truly alive. It holds no purpose. Our days are numbered,” he says lowly. “It is the truth for us all. Faerie. Human. Both and either. And this day, what I want you to know—what you  _ must _ know is—“ his voice breaks.

She moves in to save him, help him, hands enclosed over his. 

“Where you are,” she whispers. “I am with you.” 

It is all she is able to say. But it is enough. Surely, it is enough. 

“Promise me,” he begs, his head bowed in deference to her. 

“I swear it. I promise. I love you.”

He smiles. That one only for her. 

The land shies away, then branches and leaves fold under one another, fauna bend to their stems, and the wind whips a rhythm to shield them from all else. 

For this is a moment only for the King and the Queen that the land is not privy to. 

And in this moment, all is well. 


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I truly allowed myself to, I could write 100 chapters of the Greenbriar's everyday lives. Of the moments in between the pages. The days to come after the epilogue. But, in order for me to move on from this incredible series, I need to let these characters go. So, for selfish reasons, this will be my last chapter. In a chronological order in some respects. I hope in it, you find some absolution. And perhaps, a bit of heartbreak. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your support. 
> 
> Jo. 

Cason has never been so excited for anything in his life. 

Around him, his classmates are devoid of their usual pre-teen tendencies. Instead of gossip, students are holding their breaths. In place of rowdiness, there is the nervous cacophony of tapping feet and clenched jaws. And the silence of it all is deafening. 

With every step the teacher takes towards him through the row of desks, the jitters only grow. Cason tries to glamour his clammy palms away but he cannot really focus on anything right now except for that small tin bucket filled to the brim with folded pieces of parchment. 

Today is the day he has been waiting for all year long: the report. 

It’s practically a rite of passage, and everyone in Faerie—well, every 12 year old at least—knows it. Every student blindly chooses a ruler of the past to present on in front of the whole class. And it is said that whom you choose is whom you truly reflect. 

A low whistle forces him to tear his eyes away from the bucket so close to him now. 

“What?” he whispers half-heartedly to the desk beside him. 

“Who do you want to get?” His friend asks him, and Cason shrugs even though he knows the answer. There are so many incredible kings and queens seared into history to choose from. He could end up with Tria, the red cap queen who was rumored to slay her lovers in their sleep—Cason doesn’t care much for that part. Or, maybe Auden the audacious, widely revered amongst his people. He may even end up with the twin rulers, Osay and Octavia, whose bond mended a rift between isles that once made up sole unseelie lands. 

His friend says something else but Cason doesn’t hear it. The teacher is at his desk now. 

“Your pick,” she smiles, lowering the bucket. 

Cason’s heart should not be thumping as erradictly as it is, but with his eyes shut, he reaches down, shuffling into the mixed paper. He urges his fingers to choose wisely, and once he has a piece in his hands, he straightens out the rolled up parchment and opens his eyes to find…

“Jude Greenbriar?” His voice sours. 

“Ah, yes,” the teacher sighs like she’s woken up from a good dream. “The mortal queen.” 

“The... _ mortal  _ queen?” Cason repeats in horror, the paper dangling from his fingers as if it will stain him. Some of his classmates turn their attention to him, and he lowers his voice not ready to face the taunts. “Human?”

The teacher only nods. “She ruled alongside the high King Cardan several centuries ago. The first of her name.” 

“What did she even  _ do? _ ” Cason grows more despondent with every breath he draws. There are many rulers he and the other students do not know of, which is why this assignment is in place, but he truly didn’t know that a full human could reign. 

“That is for you to find out!” The teacher chirps, turning on her heel to the front of the room. 

“Alright children,” she claps. “Your book reports are due in two weeks time. You are to not just research their lives, but find the essence of who they were when they lived.”

…..

In theory, Cason should have all he needs to begin his report. 

A Quill freshly inked sits easily in his hand, hovering over the sheets of crystal parchment in a binded book. His posture—one that his mother would beam at—is impeccable as he aligns with the wooden chair against his table in the reading grove. The parchment is pristine before him, but it’s taunting, daring him to write something. Daring him to write anything. 

Yes, Cason should have all he needs to begin his report, but he doesn’t. Because what he makes up in supplies, he lacks in sheer and utter interest. 

It isn’t that he hates humans. There have been more and more of them littered about the Fae lands. His family has even befriended a few. He also knows the importance of them in bloodlines, how necessary they are. But full blooded humans as rulers? The capabilities are night and day, he is sure of it. And never has he heard of a mortal leading in such a way that they have been seared into every nook and cranny of their histories. 

He huffs, dropping his quill. 

“What interest have you in the Greenbriar line?” Bites a raspy voice behind him. 

Cason whirls around to meet the eyes of a Goblin. Or at least he tries to meet his eyes, the creature is transfixed on the few books on the fae boy’s desk—all he could find in the grove about Jude. 

“None,” he admits, reclining back into his seat. He can’t help it anymore. He’s full blown upset and he refuses to hide it. “I have no interest in writing about a  _ human  _ queen _.” _

“Well then you are a fool,” the Goblin sneers, narrow nose thinning moreso. 

Cason, in shock, inspects the goblin closer. His eyes tell his age, and in the line are centuries past. “Then so be it,” he grumbles, but the words tumble out anyways. “The most important assignment of all my years and I get her.” He stews, flicking the hardcover of the largest book in the corner of his desk. “There isn’t even anything in the grove  _ about  _ her.” 

“Yes, a fool  _ indeed. _ ” The elder went on. “A fool indeed to believe Queen Jude was just an ordinary mortal. And a fool to believe her so inconsequential that her tale would be here among plain ones.” 

The insults ricochet off Cason like bouncing balls. “Then where,” he gestures wildly. “Am I supposed to find it?”

The ancient goblin scowls, eyes whirring. “Come,” he says at last, stalking off down the row shelves.    
  


Why Cason follows him, he does not know, but he does so all the same. Slugging his bag across his shoulders, and scurrying off behind the creature who is already a ways away. 

.....

The dark of the tunnels disguises Cason’s flush, but does nothing to dispel his shallow breaths as he and the Goblin trod over the many footfalls of the long and winding paths beneath the ground. 

And his companion does no such thing as to slow down. 

“Where are we going,” the fae boy asks for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time, the Goblin sucks his teeth and just quickens his pace. 

His mother would kill him. Absolutely  _ kill _ him for being in a foreign place with a stranger, but for some reason, that day his common sense left him in lieu of his curiosity. 

Before Cason can ask again where they are headed, they enter a pass different from the rest. A wooden door burned with the insignia for…

As the Goblin pushes open the doors, Cason knows where they are instantly. If not for the symbol emblazoned upon their entrance, then for the decadence that hangs over every piece of velvetine furniture in the study, the silver tiles under their feet, the hundreds of shelves that encircle them. The sepia filtered sunlight washes the place in the past through the bejeweled archway windows. 

Cason stops short, unsure of himself or in awe, he does not know. Maybe both. 

“How are you allowed in here?” He finds his voice, eyes sweeping over the room. 

The Goblin only crosses his arms. “I have two rules, boy,” he counts off his fingers. “That you do not inquire anything further about who I am that I have no revealed to you, and that you do not take anything from here without my permission.” 

Cason doesn’t even have the gall to frown at the implication that he would be stupid enough to steal from the crown. But he does have a million and one questions. The fae boy gently hangs his bag at a desk before turning to the creature. “Where can I find information about Jude?”

“ _ Queen _ Jude,” the Goblin corrects, shaking his head before flicking his hand towards the room. “Every single book you see here has some mention of her.”

_ Every single one.  _

“Close your mouth boy, you’ll catch flies,” 

Never in his life has Cason known a person to be so important to have an entire library dedicated solely to them and their line. Even the current reigning King does not come close. It’s incredible. And intimidating. And the surge of thrill that teems under his skin wills him to pull an especially tattered book from the first shelf to his right. The golden ink of the title glints in the glow of the fae light. 

“I will leave you to it,” the Goblin clears his throat, and tosses Cason something he barely manages to catch. A skeletal key sits on his palm. 

“Do your research boy,” the Goblin says before pressing once more along the tunnel doors. 

_ So, so many questions.  _ He decides on asking just one. 

“Wait,” Cason calls after his companion. “Why are you helping me?”

In the dim light, his blotchy skin is the shade of moss and weathered tree trunks. His brows furrow like the gnarled roots of one, too, while he stares at the fae boy for a moment. “She was unlike any other,” his voice is quiet. Without bite. Without malice. “And her legacy deserves to be told as she was. It must be upheld.”

In a blink, he is gone. 

…..

With every page, the fae boy garners interest he wishes he does not have. 

He fights against it at first. Fights against this pull, this tug of wonder that weaves him through the shelves, desk piled high with so many books, one would barely know he was there. Both of his hands cramp from how much he deigns to write, it seems like there isn’t enough parchment in the world to encapsulate who she was. He also learns how big of a part her husband, King Cardan, played in the tale of her life. 

And for the next week and a half, this is his routine: he goes to class, heads through the tunnels, and spends the rest of the time enthralled in the life of Queen Jude. 

“How do you know so much about her?” He asks the Goblin one day during the rare times he visits the study. 

The elder creature is perched atop the window seat, a pick in his sharp teeth, he sighs. “I once served her, long ago.” 

The fae boy smiles faintly, he had suspected as much. He gathered much from the tales on the parchment about the late Queen, but much of it came from the Goblin. His tone when he spoke of her was always different, his eyes, his stature, alight, as if he was there again, with her. 

“And,” he adds, finally turning towards Cason. “She was my friend.” With glistening eyes, he adds, “She saved me.”

For the first time, he doesn’t pry on that. That story. That remnant he has of her. It’s only for him, and he doesn’t ask him about it. 

The last night he spends in the study—the night before his presentation—he has everything he needs, he is sure of it, to tell Queen Jude’s story to his classmates.

And he has never felt more honored to do so. 

“Here,” the Goblin hands him a satchel, a large scroll tied off with a ruby ribbon poking out. “This should finish your presentation quite nicely.” 

Cason takes the bag and heaves it upon his shoulder, but not before nodding at his companion. No, more than that. He had become a teacher. 

“Thank you,” the mortal words so foreign on his tongue. It is the only thing he can think of that holds the weight of his gratitude. 

The Goblin shifts on his feet, and nods. Only once. Deeply. 

Once the boy fishes the key to return to him, the elder turns to leave, but there is one burning question, one last one, that he dares to ask. 

“I never got your name,” Cason says slowly. 

The old Goblin eyes him for a long while before he smiles. Truly, smiles. 

“Roach.”

….

Applause dies down in the courtyard as another classmate finishes her presentation, and when she returns to her seat, it is Cason’s cue to stand. 

The doubting stares and snickers follow him as he makes his way to the front, hushes from the teacher as she gives him an encouraging smile. It doesn’t matter though. He shoulders the weight of a responsibility that none of them can possibly even begin to understand. He was chosen for this. 

The fae boy clears his throat to speak and to his right, behind the willow trees, he swears there is a glimpse of green, a flash of sharp crystal teeth. 

He smiles to himself, before a snap of his fingers present a large scroll. 

It unfurls itself after a moment, and there are gasps of awe around the room at the revelation of the portrait. 

It is none other than the King and Queen, of so long ago, who eye the class in ancient glory. 

Cardan is resplendent. Wears midnight regality like a cloak, power emanates from every pore. The lush red of the breastplate of his suit is rich and highlights the mischief and wonder in his violet eyes, and the whisper of a smile sits on his lips. 

But Jude...

The Queen is dashing, effervescent in the glow of a purpose that transcends time and space. 

So with widened eyes, and parted mouths, Cason begins. 

“Jude Duarte Greenbriar, the High Queen of Elfhame and the first of her name, was born in the mortal world. After the murder of her parents, she and her sisters were spirited away to these lands to live as one of us as Gentry of the Folk.” 

And he tells her story. 

He tells his classmates of her life in its fierce entirety. He tells them of the attempts on her life, on what she had to do to survive friends and folk and foe. He tells them of being shackled to the depths of the sea, of Prince Dain’s promise, and their massacre. He tells them of the trickery and loss that turned into love. He tells them of it all. 

Momentarily he looks up and his classmates only draw nearer to him, eyes sparkling. 

“She and King Cardan,” Cason continues, “had three children: Raissa, Alistair, and Egon. Raissa was heir to the throne until her death. And because she never had any children, she donned the crown to another, which has created the line of descendants that we now know and have today.” 

He gestures to the new painting floating behind him, a portrait of the family, children young. 

“Jude was not like one of us. Not really. She had to earn her way into favor. Bloodshed bore her status. Whether it was intentional or unwilling. She was a fighter. Right up until the end of her life. The old books say King Cardan couldn’t bear her loss. And it wasn’t long until he followed.” 

The teacher makes a pained noise where she stands by her desk, eyes gleaming. 

“I have one more thing,” he looks to her for approval, and in her trance she just nods. 

The parchment Cason fishes out of his bag is worn and smudged, but it isn’t difficult to make out. 

“This,” he holds up to the room. “Is the last letter King Cardan ever wrote. No one knows who it was intended for. But this is his script, in his own hand.” 

A collective gasp overtakes the room. 

And so Cason reads: 

_ In the days I have left, I have been pulled asunder at the most vivid realization.  _

_ My queen has left me.  _

_ And so, I too, must follow.  _

_ So in these last days,  _

_ I leave you with these words: _

_ All my life, I have been met with consequence unending.  _

_ It followed me, became me. Gripped my very core and spun a web of darkness. It wafted in the planes of my very being. And there it stayed for long.  _

_ And then she came.  _

_ And she absolutely upended me.  _

_ The fuel to every fire, and the calm of the snuffed flame.  _

_ The only constellation in my sky. She made my dark iridescent.  _

_ In our lives, many of us will face hardship. Have faced it and bear it as an albatross on our shoulders. Or in the places that no one dares to bear witness to. No one dares to see.  _

_ I have learned that to be cruel and to be wicked sows a bitter fruit. There is no valor in that. No truth in keeping one’s heart guarded.  _

_ Any creature can spar for a title. Can lash their swords against another’s in battle.  _

_ But there is something else I have witnessed to be true.  _

_ I have been undone by it. It has ruined me. It has made me. I have only been able to live, and truly live, in its throes.  _

_ True courage resides in only one thing. The best thing.  _

_ It is love.  _

  
  


Fin. 


	9. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last days of Raissa’s life, she thinks about the future and the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hello everyone - I hope you are doing well as we close out this turbulent and trying year. I had such a beautiful and kind response to Forever and a Day, and I cannot tell you how much every single comment and kudos made me smile. I figured why not write one more—sad, sorry to tell you—piece in the amazing trilogy that enraptured me at the start of the year. A story to say goodbye. This was strangely an emotional one for me to write, and I did it in one go. It could be cleaner, more fleshed out, but it came from the heart. I also wanted to tie in a lesson I think is so important—especially this year. I hope you enjoy, and I wish you all a safe, prosperous new year. May everything you wish for come to pass. And remember, surviving is always enough. Much love.

Queen Raissa Greenbriar of Elfhame, the first of her name, the last of her line, never liked the way the sun filtered through the study. 

She scowled as she took in the sepia filtered light that should have been a kaleidoscope of gold and ruby and emerald. But the position of the windows and the jewels never allowed midday to strike in a presentable way. And what use was the sun if it wasn’t beautiful? 

She sat back into her chair, legs—not as nimble, yet still good—sprawled up on either side of the cushion armrests. A fire going in one corner, and a stack of half-read books in the other. She’d made it a mission of hers in the past few months to try and actually finish them. She did say she’d  _ tried _ . 

“Your majesty?” A voice inquired that bordered fearful, sounded before her. 

She only turned the page. “Hmm?” 

The sentry only moved forward but an inch. He said in an audible gulp, “Your Majesty. The Council of the Living awaits you in the grand hall.”

Raissa turned another page, her mouth thinning. She didn’t know which bothered her moreso. The fact that every single subject who served her seemed to do so with an air of anxiety, or that the Council of the Living beckoning her  _ again _ , she may add, when she was on the verge of being anything but living. 

The sentry looked on the verge of an aneurysm. “Your Majesty.”

His voice was annoying. Raissa closed her book with a snap and raised her head, her crown sliding down to the front of her braids. “Tell them I will be there in a moment.”

“But your Majesty—”

“A moment,” Raissa gave her best smile, which she knew came out a grimace. And as she watched him scurry off, she gave herself an actual smile. She hadn’t actually specified how long a moment would be. 

She waited a few more minutes, to be sure he would leave the main hallway, before standing and leaving the study. Her hand immediately went to her walking stick—she would absolutely refuse to refer to it as the word  _ cane _ —and ducked her head to check the way for good measure, before walking the opposite way from where the grand hall was located. 

It was quiet today. She liked it this way though. Because she was never truly alone. Every inch of this place held some kind of whisper of life. She smiled as her hand ran across a particular beam at the end of the hall. She fingered the ridge in the middle, where her father had to repair it after one of Egon’s ridiculous pranks. Her heart panged. She did like it this way, but it didn’t make it any less difficult. A whisper of a life was one thing. But it was a ghost. It wasn’t actual life. Not like it was before. 

Raissa took a left turn and found herself in the garden nearest to the sea. Most of Elfhame was asleep. But she never truly loved the evening to live. She thought that of all the idiocy mortals had, one of their finer ideas was to live during the day, and rest during the night. She’d reversed her own circadian rhythm in most recent months—much to the dismay of all who worked for her. And the Council of the Living. 

Raissa frowned at the thought of facing them again, as she took a seat at the base of the largest Oak tree her mother had planted after her uncle. The members had been incensed at her choice to...be done with her life. All the hundreds of years of it. But it wasn’t the first time they were furious with her decisions. They’d barely contained themselves when she told them she would not marry, nor continue her line after her brothers died, with a human. And she’d insisted that no it was not because he would be a mortal. It had nothing to do with that. Didn’t they remember her mother? Her ferocity, her fortitude? In the face of everything against her. That woman was a force. It had  _ absolutely _ nothing to do with that. And everything to do with Raissa. 

The Queen closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the sun coat her lids and her memories. Her mother was a tidal wave. The heavy beating of a bird’s wings. And her father was the cool of the night. A blade. And they had walked into their ends so boldly. So willingly. So sure. It was the one thing she’d remembered the most. Past the grief. It was this feeling of understanding. And the moment she’d felt it too, months ago, it was a decision that her and the land had made. 

“Your Highness.” Someone above her cleared his throat. 

Raissa swore, taking her time to open her eyes. “Yes?”

One of the members stood before her, and she hated to admit even after all these years, she’d continually forgotten his name. He held a parasol to shield his speckled topaz skin from the sunlight, and contempt hung from his face like a beard. “You are required in the grand hall.” 

There were many times a day Raissa wished she could lie. She grabbed a hold of her stick. “Yes. Very well. Lead me to them.” 

* * *

“All the preparations for the future King Jossah are readied to almost completion.” 

One of the members—Kazan—said from where he sat at the foot of the table. The others seated around him nodded in respectable agreement. And it was true. The palace had begun to be stripped of all traces of Raissa—as was tradition. 

“And, well,” Kazan looked sheepish. “The only matter left is that of when he will be moving in. Before his coronation, of course.” They all looked one by one to Raissa who only looked up from inspecting her nails when she realized the room was silent. 

She raised her brows from the throne. “Today. Why not.” And she went back to her hands. They always did this. Still did this. Acted nervous or like they were doing something improper by preparing for the inevitable. 

He opened his mouth again, a few times before saying, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but when an Elfhame monarch usually...moves on. We have the next ruler move in only after the Legacy Accords.”

Raissa placed her hands down at that. “Legacy Accords?” She’d never heard of it. 

Kazan jumped in to explain, excited at the opportunity to have her full attention. “Yes, Your Majesty.” And when she still held her blank stare, he continued. “It is a script, something tangible, or a song or something spoken that tells of what legacy the current ruler would like to leave behind. Usually marked at the start of the onwards ceremony.” 

Something to be said on her last day to represent all of her life? Again, she’d never heard of it. The Queen shifted in her seat. “My parents never spoke of any accords like this. Nor do I recall them participating in this.”

“Ah, yes,” said Kazan. His eyes were sad. “If you’ll remember, their deaths were...unexpected, to say the least.” She pushed down the pain of that. “They did not have the time.” He looked pointedly at her. “But you do.”

Yes. She had three days. 

Immediately Raissa had wondered why no one had brought this up sooner rather than now, but she _ had _ been evading them for weeks now. The Queen sighed. A sigh her father would pine as dramatic. And stood up abruptly. Her hand outstretched as a sentry ran up the steps to hand her stick to her. The others around the table followed suit in deference, and she came down the steps. 

“Very well,” she said to the room. “I will be ready by then.” 

* * *

It was one day later, and she was not close to ready. 

She sat in that study with the off-kilter lighting, one feather-tipped scroll in her right hand and absolutely untouched parchment in the other. How on earth could she leave something that would live beyond her in a mere two days? 

She sat back in her chair. She’d kissed all of the babies, she’d sung all the songs, she’d hosted the reveries. She made sure her people were well-taken care of in her hands for all their years. But what could she leave that encapsulated all she did and all she felt? 

She dropped the pen in a huff, drumming her fingers on her gossamer-covered knee. 

What even was a legacy, truly? How could one so easily define it? It was madness. This whole thing was madness. Just as she prepared to stand and go somewhere else that wasn’t the study, the doors swung open.

A man walked in carrying a velvet box. He stopped short at the sight of her, and the box fell. The contents spilling onto the carpet. 

The council had chosen him, truly. Something about a prophecy. There was  _ always _ something about a prophecy. And she’d barely glimpsed his face in the portrait then, but she saw him now. He could almost pass for a human. Chestnut hair, falling into his brown eyes—which Raissa was sure the council would ask him to trim—and sun-kissed skin. Like bronze. It was the point of the ears that marked him as faerie. He was handsome though. A wind-swept charming. Someone who Raissa would have liked to court in those early years, for sure. 

He looked at her like he could not believe what he was seeing, and then fell to his knee, his head bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said to the floor in a rush. “Apologies, I’ve seemed to have gotten lost—this place is, grander than I would have thought and I did not mean—”

“It is alright,” Raissa’s face was painted with amusement. “Arise.”

He did so. Slowly. Like if he moved any faster, it would sign his demise. Raissa splayed her hand. “Welcome to your new home.”

She passed him into the hall without another word. 

* * *

It seemed that the rest of the day, wherever Raissa was, Jossah seemed to be as well. 

She sat sipping her soup, he sat opposite of her, eating his bread. 

Where she strolled in the garden, he sat by the water’s edge. 

As flattered as Raissa was, she did intend to spend her last days alone. As she had spent the last years alone. 

And it was only when she meant to enter her study and have another go at this inane legacy assignment, and Jossah crossed her path again, did she stop him. 

“You know,” she said to his wide eyes. “I truly would have appreciated someone as beautiful as you pining after me in my younger days, but it is getting to be quite cumbersome.”

Jossah turned crimson. “Apologies,” he sputtered. “My utmost apologies, Your Grace.” He looked like a cat that had just been doused with water. She felt a bit bad. “I just,” he waved his hands. “I do not know what I am doing in the slightest. And I just—I wanted to see...I wanted to shadow you. Just for a bit to see how you acted as...you.”

Raissa blinked at him. And then she opened the study door, nodding her head to follow. She settled in her chair , and watched him pull up a seat at her desk. He truly was young. Eager, she could see, but fresh. She remembered what the council had told her about him, and his life. How he’d been ever so promising in all of his classes, acted as diplomat at unseelie reveries. How he was adored by all who knew him. How the stars had solidified his role here in this place. But looking at him. This boy whose eyes were still covered by his hair, and his shirt was a bit untucked. This boy whose flush highlighted the freckles on his nose. He was just that. A boy. Which did not disqualify him to fill the task, but did not help him in other ways. 

“So you are looking for advice to be a King,” Raissa said. 

Jossah blinked before nodding his head, the next one with more fervor than the last. “Yes, Your Majesty. Please.”

Raissa sighed earnestly. “I am afraid I don’t have much to tell you.” 

There was shock on Jossah’s face, although he did his best to school it into raised brows. 

Raissa continued. “I don’t have much to tell you beyond what you already know. And what you already are.”

Above where he sat, was a portrait of her parents in golden frame. Even in the illustration, power emanated from the image. Her father was holding her mother, and in her arms were Raissa, Egon and Alistair. Young, Egon was just a babe. And Raissa was five? Maybe younger. She remembered the day the family had it painted. It was a day outlined in the chaos only having three young faerie heirs could bring. And her mother had just about had it. But once her father placed his arm around her, and his children, all was well. Those were genuine smiles. Tough, beautiful days. 

“There isn’t much to say about the role of a ruler,” Raissa went on. Still looking at the portrait. “You simply begin. And you make hard choices. And you make easy choices. And you try to retain yourself within. Which is possible,” she turned to the almost-king who was still sitting there, his face taking in the words she was saying. “You can and you will retain who you are. But there will be fissures at the core of you that will threaten to crack when disappointments and grief abound. And they will. But you will survive.”

Just like her parents did. Just like those who came before her did. Just like she did. 

The Queen returned to her seat, eyeing Jossah who was silent. His eyes rolled for a moment before he blinked it away, his head raised a little higher. “And how did you do it?” He asked the Queen of Elfhame. “How did you survive all these years?”

Raissa was taken aback by the question. She fidgeted her hands. How did she survive? She’d never asked herself that before. Or properly, even had the time to ask herself. With this weight; this responsibility. How did she come to be where she was? At that moment, her walking stick chose to fall onto the floor. Startled, she bent to pick it up. And she looked at it. Something she hadn’t truly done in a long, long time. She thumbed the grooves of the imperfect marks that made up the staff at the top, and the pattern of mahogany swirls that turned into line portraits of every member of her family. And that was her answer. 

For him. And for her. 

Raissa looked back at Jossah as if she’d just been shaken awake, and she gripped his hands. “I survived it by those who lived with me.” She squeezed his hands. “And so will you.” 

* * *

On the day Queen Raissa of Elfhame, the first of her name, the last of her line, was set to leave this world, she wore white. 

It was a peculiar color to wear in Faerie. Her people and her land were loud, and flamboyant. Their grab was braggadocious, their tongues silver, their plight purposeful. White did not scream any of that. White did not scream anything. It was a silent color. But it was what she needed. 

She stood at the mirror in her bedroom. And really, truly looked at herself. The features that were given to her. Her father’s midnight hair, and porcelain pallor. Her mother’s amber eyes, and full mouth. And then the features she’d forged for herself. The stubbornness she’d honed to ensure her people were the top priority in every inter-island policy she and the council had made. The humor that popped up in the most inappropriate times. Her inability to commit to anything other than this role she had been deigned. And the fear that never presented itself at normal times like today. 

She should have felt fear for the uncertainty of whatever was to come. But she didn’t. When the Queen of Elfhame looked at herself in the mirror in this bedroom that was fading, and the crinkles of time in the corner of her eyes and the cane—yes,  _ cane— _ her brother had carved for her before he had passed on, in this dress of prude white, she felt no fear. Anger, pride, joy, grief, so much grief was heavy on her chest still, even after all this time, but no fear. 

She straightened her back one more time, before leaving her chambers for the final time. Sentries lined the halls, chins as high as the ceiling as possible. Some of them quivered. As she turned the corner, she ran into none other than Jossah again. She stifled a laugh as he bowed his head. “In the mortal world it is bad luck to see a bride in white before the altar,” Raissa said. “I would imagine something similar for this day.” 

Jossah smiled. He would be a good king. He would be a kind king. “I will not take too much of your time,” he promised, before his smile turned somber. “I wanted to say thank you.” 

Thank you. She hadn’t heard those words in centuries. Thank you. The words her mother used to insist on them children saying even if it wasn’t normal. Especially because it was not normal. But because they held weight. And bespoke a gratitude that nothing else could fill. 

“It has been an honor,” he continued. He choked on the last word. 

Raissa held both of his cheeks, and kissed them each. A blessing. She leaned in close to him, and said in a whisper, “May you survive.”

* * *

It was time. 

She had wished for no crowd for her departure. Some Queens and Kings in the past made it a reverie. One last grand party, inviting faerie and mortal folk from land big and small, near and far. Raissa wanted nothing of the sort. And if she could have decided, she wouldn’t have even wished for the council members to be present. But they were. They stood in a curve around the big oak tree. All dressed in green. 

The Queen of Elfhame emerged from the palace doors and into the garden with strong, sturdy steps. And beaming. Truly, magnificently smiling. As she passed through the members, she noticed the confusion. And when she got to the base, she gently placed the cane down. It wasn’t a moment later that vines emerged from the ground, and fastened it to the mulch. She willed the land to hold it close. Then Raissa leaned against the tree. The bark pinching her back in an embrace.

She closed her eyes for a second. Drinking in every sound, and every breath. Every inch of the life she had right now. Before whatever came after. Then she opened her eyes again. And addressed the members. 

“I think it is a rather foolish assignment to require rulers to relay their legacy,” she said it as she did everything, plainly. By her, Kazan shook his head, but his eyes were damp. “But nevertheless, I have done it. I think many believe legacy is defined as what you can do and what your life is valued at for others. Which is a normal thing for a King or a Queen. Our lives aren’t entirely our own. We make choices, but we don’t exactly have them. And that is okay. Truly, it is.

“But when  _ I  _ think of legacy.” Her breath hitched with emotion. Beyond the garden and the keepers, she saw her youngest brother, Egon, chasing around an insect. Mudding his pants. Her older brother, Alastair, laughing at the sight. “When I think of legacy. I think of who I came from.” A tear slid from her eye. “The voices and the laughter that aren’t here with me. The whispers. The silence.” And then a flash of raven hair. Of amber eyes. 

Her parents were standing there. Jude. Cardan. Gathering their sons in their arms. Alight. 

Her lips trembled as she smiled. As she drank up the memories. Lapped it up to store for wherever she was going next. “My legacy was surviving this long without that. Without them.” She wiped her eyes. “You know, legacies and legends don’t have to give or be much. They don’t have to hold a lesson or warning. They can just be lived as they are. In spite of— _ especially— _ in spite of what has been lost.” 

It had taken her all this time to know this. To acknowledge this. 

She looked every one of her advisors in their wet eyes. “I have survived for our people. And that is enough.” 

Kazan was the first to take a knee. The last deference to a leaving Queen. Then the others followed suit as they always did. A sweeping row. An end to a millennia of service. Someone then gave a blessing. And someone gave another. The customary words. But Raissa was already gone. She couldn’t hear them, her ears were filled with laughter. Her eyes still on that scene of the ones she loved and held on to. 

Queen Raissa Greenbriar of Elfhame, the first of her name, the last of her line, closed her eyes for the last time. 

And when she opened them again, amber eyes and a silver tongue were there to greet her. And to hold her. 

And that was enough. 


End file.
